


All That Was Good

by winterwaters



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: 2x05 reunion gone haywire, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Fluff, I can't believe this tag exists but okay, I need happy endings, I'm Sorry, Life-Affirming Sex, Masturbation Interruptus, Optimistic Future, Oral Sex, POV Multiple, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-23
Updated: 2016-04-23
Packaged: 2018-06-03 21:23:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,144
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6627025
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/winterwaters/pseuds/winterwaters
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>2x05 AU: Bellamy and Clarke’s reunion is more unexpected and emotional than either expects.</p><p>Or, the one where Bellamy walks in on Clarke's *special time* and there's nowhere to hide — from each other or their feelings.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All That Was Good

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rashaka](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rashaka/gifts).



> Treating this as a prompt since you basically gave me the great set-up and generally let me flail <3 Title is from Outlander's theme Skye Boat Song, because I have no chill.

_Alive._

Clarke tastes the word over and over in her mouth, basks in the sheer joy it sends flying through her bones, however temporary.

Bellamy and Finn. Alive.

She bumps right into Raven, not realizing her friend has stopped walking down the hallway of the Ark. Clarke opens her mouth to apologize, only to have Raven grin and bump her shoulder.

“I’ll have what you’re having,” Raven teases.

“Yeah, yeah. Sorry. I just— I can’t believe it.”

Her friend’s expression softens, if only for a moment. “I know. They’re okay, Clarke. All in once piece. And when they come back, we’ll go get the others from Mount Weather. We'll bring our friends home.”

Clarke nods, grasping her hand. “Yeah. We will.”

Raven squeezes back, then tilts her head down the hall. “Take your pick. None of the rooms here are being used.”

“Why not?”

“Dunno. Something about the locks not working. Plus it’s pretty far from anything remotely useful. Nothing but empty beds and some free storage space. I figured it would be a good place for you to get some rest.”

"Thanks. But I feel like I should be planning, doing _something_ to help, not sleeping.” 

Raven arches an eyebrow. “You’ll have plenty to do when they get back. Try to relax a bit while you can.” Her friend begins to hop back the way they came on her crutches. “I’ll divert any strays,” she calls.

Clarke wanders into an empty room and shuts the door behind her, only to have the latch spring free seconds later, popping it slightly ajar. She considers fighting with it, but it seems so pointless. And she’s so fucking exhausted of fighting. So she turns her back and climbs onto the single bed, laying her head on her arm.

Here, surrounded by four concrete walls, the noise of camp fades. It would be easy to close her eyes and sleep, let the world drift on without her for a bit. But her brain is wide awake, too busy running through scenarios, hoping that wherever Finn and Bellamy are, they haven’t gotten themselves into more trouble by looking for her. She pushes back guilt and focuses instead on that single, wonderful word— _alive._

God, what a difference it makes to know she’s not alone. After what happened to Anya, she’d been certain that her last thread of hope was taken. That the horrors of the mountain would overwhelm them all. Then, one by one, it was as if Earth started giving her people back for those she’d lost. First came her mother, strong and stubborn and loving. And now, Bellamy and Finn, too. 

A slight shiver runs through her body, makes her squirm and curl her toes into the bedspread. They’re alive, and so is she, and that means she has hope. Hope that they’ll rescue their friends — their _family_ — and then face the next challenge as one, like they’ve been doing for so long now. It means someone will have her back. The thought floods her with gratitude.

Shifting onto her back, she stares up at the ceiling. She’s too restless, full of energy she can’t direct towards anything productive. If she goes back outside her mother will just hawk over her again, shuttle her away to the sick bay like an invalid. But she needs some sort of release, an outlet for the sudden rush that’s taken over her, the adrenaline in her body.

Her fingers drift to the hem of her shirt, stroking the skin at her hip. Maybe if she can’t be useful to anyone else, she can help herself instead. Some relief wouldn’t be the worst right now. And it’s not like anyone needs to know. Biting her lip, she considers a moment longer.

Then she unbuttons her jeans.

~~~~~~~

Bellamy strides through the halls, two words ringing in his ears. _Clarke’s here._

Abby had barely gotten that much out before he was demanding to know _where, how, is she okay,_ hurrying in the direction she pointed. He didn’t particularly care if she was miffed at his interruption. He also didn’t bother to analyze Raven’s odd expression as he strode by. 

The fact is Clarke’s alive, and he needs to see her with his own eyes, so that the iron grip around his heart can ease a little, if only for a moment. 

He knows she’s probably resting, and hell, she deserves it, but— just a peek, one look at her sleeping form to calm his own clamoring pulse, and then he’ll leave.

Rounding the corner, he finds one empty room after another. His heart thuds loudly in his ears as he comes upon a partially closed door. The sight of Clarke’s blonde waves spilling over the pillow is enough to make his whole body sag in relief, but even as he pushes the door open all the way, his brain is assaulted with a whole new image.

Clarke, with her shirt rucked up and a hand kneading her breast, the other caught between her splayed legs as she arches her neck and sighs, eyes closed in bliss.

Then, before he can back out and save himself, the unthinkable happens. Her mouth opens, and a single word falls from her lips.

_”Bellamy.”_

~~~~~~~

Clarke’s surprised how easy it is to fall into a rhythm. 

Her hips rock up at just the first ghosting touch of her fingers, legs falling open without a care. Maybe she was craving this more than she realized. Giving in, she shucks off her pants and underwear and gets comfortable. Her eyes drift shut while she keeps up the light, teasing touch, just tracing aimless patterns on her skin at first. Running her fingers up and down the inside of her thigh, letting her nails catch along the jut of her hip, imagining phantom hands nudging her shirt upwards ever so slowly.

It’s hard to really think of Finn anymore. Whatever they might have had … there’s no point in dwelling on it. Because when it comes down to it, Clarke knows that he was never really hers to begin with. For that moment in the bunker, suspended in time, they needed each other. But now Raven’s here, and they’ve both become too dear for her to risk losing either of them over one impulsive action.

That doesn’t really help with the task at hand. Her body’s beginning to stir, but even the harder press of her hand isn’t doing much without _something_ else accompanying it.

Eventually she settles on a faceless stranger, focusing more on the feeling than the person himself. The sense of security she craves, to be taken care of without being treated delicately; to share in the reminder that they've scratched and clawed their way this far — that they live.

By the time she realizes the wild curls, broad shoulders, and smattering of freckles have formed a very specific image in her mind, it's too late.

Her body either doesn’t notice or completely ignores the alarm bells her brain tries to send out, and before she knows it it’s Bellamy’s face hovering over hers, the strong hard length of his body bearing a delicious weight atop her. Bellamy, who manages to send her temper skyrocketing with one cocky smirk; who’s intensely protective of everything and everyone he holds dear; who she always wants by her side, regardless of what comes at them next.

This is wrong, wrong, wrong, she tells herself. Except she's not very convincing, and every part of her has already relaxed, accepted what's happening, so—fuck it.

She slides a hand under her shirt and up her ribcage, thankful she hadn’t bothered with the Ark-issued bra again. Her hand cups her breast, squeezes, shivers at the thought of Bellamy's large, tanned hands wrapping around her pale skin. He’d probably have that pinch in his brow too, studying her as quizzically as he does everything else. Maybe she’d lean up to kiss it, pulling one of those genuinely surprised smiles from him. 

Her legs open wider of their own volition, two fingers sinking easily into her cunt as her hips begin to rock. Her thumb brushes over her nipple, and the spark it sends straight to her core makes her call his name softly.

To her utter shock, his voice — his _real_ voice — echoes back.

“Clarke?” 

~~~~~~~

Clarke snaps up, withdrawing her hand from her legs and nearly tumbling off the cot in her haste. Wiping her hand on her shirt — _dear god_ — she stands unsteadily. Emotions flash across her face like a carousel — astonishment, arousal, embarrassment, disbelief. The color in her cheeks deepens as the silence stretches out agonizingly between them.

Finally Clarke breaks it in a hushed whisper. “Bellamy?”

Something in her voice isn’t right, but since his vocal chords are still shot, he just nods. She moves an inch closer, her wide-eyed gaze pinning him to the spot.

“Is it really you?” She asks, and now he gets it, realizes what’s at the core of her distress.

“It’s me,” he says hoarsely. The sound of his voice makes her jump a little.

They both stay where they are, speechless for another minute or so, until finally Bellamy makes a decision. Stepping fully into the room, he shuts the door behind him, giving it a hard kick so the latch finally catches and holds.

It seems to snap Clarke out of her shock. To his alarm, her eyes brim rapidly with tears. It strikes him like a battering ram straight to the heart.

“I— I closed the door,” she says, voice catching on the last word. “I closed the dropship door, and you—”

Bellamy’s in front of her before he can remember moving. “I’m right here,” he says firmly.

“But—”

“No buts,” he interrupts. “It had to be done.”

She takes a deep breath, hearing the conviction in his voice, and when she finally nods, he hopes it’s because she knows he would have done the same. 

“All this time, I thought—” Her voice gives out, scratchy and tearful. He watches her gulp in air, her eyes roaming over his face like he’s just turned her world upside down, and his gut clenches because he can’t remember anyone ever looking at him like this, as if _his_ life was the important one. Clarke whispers, “I thought you were dead. I thought it was because of me.”

Bellamy gives her his best self-deprecating smile, though it’s more shaky than usual. “You should know by now it’s not so easy to get rid of me.”

The sound Clarke lets out is something between gratitude and scoff, but then she flings her arms around him without warning, curling them around his neck and pressing her lips to the skin above his collar. After a stunned moment he returns her embrace, enfolds her in his arms as tight as he dares, burying his face against her hair and lifting her to her toes. She’s smiling, he can feel it against his neck, and that alone splinters his heart.

Clarke’s grip finally loosens a few minutes later, but she doesn’t let him go far, and he couldn’t have moved if he wanted to. Her eyes drink him in, more awe and kindness than he thinks he deserves, so he lets his own gaze drift over her. She's just as scratched up and disheveled as he is, but her eyes burn bright with a familiar determination, that fierce will that he once ridiculed but now admires. 

It’s only the sight of her long legs, bare and creamy, that startle him back to just moments ago when she had no idea he was watching—when she’d said _his_ name. It makes his mouth go dry all over again. 

Clarke has apparently been watching him too closely, because she catches on to the shift in his mood right away, color rising in her cheeks as she crosses one leg in front of the other and studies the floor a little too hard.

Bellamy can’t stop himself from trailing his gaze down her body, taking in the blush that disappears under the neckline of her shirt, her clear lack of bra, the long expanse of her legs, until he encounters a particularly nasty bruise just above her knee. He drops to his knees, fingers tracing over the puckered scar. She sucks in a loud breath. 

His head snaps up. “Did that hurt?”

“No,” she answers too quickly, not quite looking at him.

Intrigued, and a bit lightheaded himself, Bellamy strokes a little higher on her thigh. Clarke shuts her eyes tight, bottom lip caught between her teeth.

“Did that hurt?” He murmurs. Another shake of her head. Tentatively, he brushes his fingers against the hem of her shirt. Clarke curls her hand over his, and when he looks up the breath nearly gets knocked out of him at the sight of a tear trailing down her cheek.

He’s on his feet in an instant to swipe it away, and cradles her face with one hand. “Hey. What is it?”

She smiles shakily and shrugs. “I really just can’t believe you’re alive,” she says, and it breaks what little resolve he was clinging to.

“I can remind you,” he says instead, and when she nods, digging her nails into his hand, he smiles and brushes his lips along the corner of her brow, the curve of her cheek, the sweep of her throat, until she twists a hand into his shirt collar and fits her mouth to his.

Kissing Clarke is dizzying. They’re both a little desperate, like each is terrified the moment’s going to break at any second, so their tongues clash sloppily, a mess of spit and sweat and tears as they catch each other’s breath. Clarke tries to walk him back against the door only to have him hoist her onto the cot, groaning against her neck when she hitches her legs over his hips and rubs against the bulge in his pants. Her answering moan is nothing short of spectacular.

The thought strikes him without warning. “Wait—Clarke,” Bellamy draws back despite her protests, keeping his hands on her elbows. There’s no way to bring this up tactfully, and it’s never been his strong suit, so— “Finn,” he says quietly.

Her expression clouds, but only briefly. Then she tugs her arms out of his grip and he lets her, thinking now he’s gone and done it, completely fucked it up as usual — until she just links her hands around his neck, hauling him back with new determination in her eyes.

“Finn is with Raven,” she answers. The way she says it, with such finality, makes him think she just reached an important conclusion for herself. Still, he hesitates.

“You’re sure?” About this? About us? About me?

Clarke studies him, her fingers carding gently through the curls at the nape of his neck, and he marvels again at the wonder in her gaze, the genuine affection that shines in her eyes — for _him._ The stroke of her fingers at his neck is so casual, so second-nature, it almost feels more intimate than their kiss. It makes Bellamy feel like his walls have crumbled for her. Badly. He swallows. But then Clarke lifts his hand to her mouth and touches her lips to the pulse at his wrist, leans in to kiss the same pulse at his throat.

“I’m sure,” she says, looking up at him.

This time he goes willingly when she pulls, and the kiss is surer, slower, a promise more than anything else.

It's tempting to continue this pace, build to a peak, but he's reminded that he interrupted her earlier and she's probably anxious to continue. And well, it’s only the polite thing to do.

So he drags his mouth away from hers and maps a path over her chest, wraps his lips around her nipples and sucks, relishing the whine that works its way out of her throat. He keeps at it until she’s gasping and the wet fabric of her shirt molds to each hard bud. Moving lower, he parts her legs and kneels, glancing up once to find her stormy blue gaze fixed on him. Clarke takes a shuddering breath when he kisses the soft skin of her inner thigh, then squeaks when he nips a little harder.

Suddenly her gaze flits to the door. “The locks suck,” she warns him, though it doesn’t sound like she much cares—rather, she’s giving him one more chance to back out.

Bellamy grins up at her, firmly grasping her thighs. “Then you’d better be loud so no one comes closer.”

Clarke glares even as her cheeks mottle again, a hand curling into the bedsheet. “Make me,” she says, because it’s her, and of course the girl has to dare him even at _this._

He’s pretty sure he’s half in love with her already.

Thankfully he doesn’t say so, just raises an eyebrow in challenge and spreads her a little wider for his eyes, a moan rumbling in his throat at the side of her pink and swollen and wanting. At the first swipe of his tongue, her thighs try to clamp around his head, and he looks up in time to see her biting her hand. Grinning, he presses her legs apart and curls his tongue again, this time rewarded by her low keen. 

Clarke is responsive to every flick of his tongue, her mewls and soft cries going straight to his groin. His senses are overwhelmed; she’s everywhere, and he can’t get enough. For that he tightens his hold on her hips, nuzzles closer against her warmth and moans when her hips rise to meet him, finding an easy rhythm. She grabs fistfuls of his hair at first, then releases him with a breathless “sorry” when he grunts. Only seconds later, though, her fingers curl back into his hair, holding him where she wants, and Bellamy grins at her inherent bossiness even now.

When she’s grinding against his mouth, desperate, he places a hand higher on her torso, wordlessly urging her to lie back on the bed. Her hand’s at her breast again, the other twisted in the sheets. Now her hips cant harder, matching the movement of his tongue, and when he feels her legs tremble he slides two fingers deep into her hot cunt and closes his mouth over her clit. Clarke calls to him over and over as she comes, her body locking up and arching beautifully off the mattress. 

When she places a hand on his forehead, Bellamy draws back and stands, rubbing gentle circles over her knees. Her skin is covered in a sheen of sweat as she lays back, watching him through heavy-lidded eyes.

She looks gorgeous like this, sated and spent, her chest heaving unevenly and her skin rosy. It makes him wish he could’ve seen her face when she came for him, but—hopefully this isn’t the end, so maybe he’ll have another chance. 

Or, maybe she’s about to kick him out and pretend this never happened.

~~~~~~~

Clarke struggles to catch her breath, a futile attempt considering Bellamy’s chin still glistens and he’s just licked his lips twice without even realizing it. Behind the obvious arousal, there’s an unbearable warmth in his eyes, a tenderness that makes her want to crawl into his arms and never let go.

She glances at the door, finding it still shut tight. 

Good.

Looking back at Bellamy, she sees the momentary panic flare on his face before he hides it, and she sit up instantly, reaching out for him.

“C’mere,” she whispers, and his eyes soften.

He takes her outstretched hand. The callouses on his palm are comforting, a tangible proof of life that makes her more thankful than ever. She traces the hardened skin on his palm, lifts his hand to hers and places a kiss directly in the center. Bellamy curls forward, his forehead dropping to hers as they share a breath, lips ghosting together and then apart.

“I’m glad you’re alive too,” he murmurs, and she brushes her thumb along his bottom lip, then curls her hand around his neck. When they kiss, Clarke tastes herself on his tongue and her body ignites with a blush that makes her frantic to feel his skin atop hers. She draws back and strips off her shirt, feeling heat pool anew when he can’t take his eyes off her.

Slowly, she curls her fingers at the hem of his shirt, smiling when Bellamy raises his arms and lets her pull it off. His abdomen is ripe with bruises that make her breath catch, but as he opens his mouth to speak, she just ducks her head and kisses each area of purpling skin, sweeping her hands along his muscled torso until his chest heaves unsteadily. 

Bellamy soon yanks her back up for a proper kiss, and together they fumble at his pants, shoving them off with his briefs. Clarke moans into his mouth when his cock gets trapped between their bodies, hot and heavy against her stomach. She reaches down, fists his hard length and grins at his resulting moan, helpless and sweeter than any sound she's ever heard. She pumps him slow and deliberate, arching when his teeth flash at her pulse as he fucks into her sticky fingers.

“Clarke,” he says roughly, and she's not sure if it's a plea or a warning, but her cunt throbs anyways. Releasing him, she rolls them over and settles atop him.

Bellamy splays his hands on her ribcage, eyes glued to hers as she rises up and begins to sink down on his cock. Her muscles stretch to welcome him, and he mutters a few curses and carves his fingers into her hips trying to hold still. Their harsh breaths come in unison until he’s buried deep.

Clarke looks down at him, lips bitten red and parted in pleasure, the way he's gazing up at her like she's a dream, and just stops. After everything that’s happened, it’s almost too surreal that she’s here with Bellamy right now. So many close calls for them both, and so many more to come. She doesn’t mean for her mind to drift, but her brain seems to have taken on a track of _what ifs_ that make her eyes shut tight in protest.

She gasps a little when Bellamy shifts unexpectedly, but then his arms encircle her waist as he sits up, presses soft open-mouthed kisses to her skin and just holds her. Clarke blinks back tears and locks her arms around his shoulders, nuzzling his neck and inhaling the scent of sweat and earth and Bellamy until she begins to feel steady again. 

She’s not sure how long they sit there, limbs entangled, taking solace from one another, but when she finally pulls back to see his face, his eyes are clear and smiling back, and it’s a wonderful thing to behold. He leans in to kiss her softly, lazily, like he wouldn’t mind doing so forever. It’s only when she begins to rock her hips, licking feverishly into his mouth, that Bellamy pulls back, eyes alight with a new kind of fire.

She places a hand against his chest and pushes. “Lie down.”

He’s on his back so fast that she blinks, and even he looks a bit sheepish at how fast he obeyed.

Clarke raises an eyebrow, grinding down on him and bringing her lips inches from his ear. “No argument at all? Don’t tell me you like taking orders.”

Bellamy chokes out a laugh. “Stick around and you’ll find out,” he challenges instead, and snaps his hips enough to make her swear and brace a hand against the wall. 

Clarke takes his mouth in a ruthless kiss, biting down on his lip hard enough to make him groan. Her lips curve, satisfied, as she regains her rhythm and begins to ride him hard. Bellamy can only pant and urge her on, his hands settling on the curve of her ass. He’s surrounded by her, long strands of hair tickling his chest, her soft pants in his ear, her breasts grazing his chest with each thrust. It’s enough to make him want to close his eyes and just let her fuck him to her heart’s content.

But when he looks up her eyes are closed, brow wrinkled in a way that tells him she’s thinking. He frowns. She shouldn’t be thinking, not right now.

“Clarke,” he requests, soothing his hands along her spine. “Open your eyes.”

She does. For a moment he sees her undisguised fear, her dread that even this one thing will be taken from them, that nothing good will last. Then she cuts her eyes away again. Bellamy tilts her face back to his, leans up to kiss her hard as his arms wrap around her, wordlessly trying to convey that he’ll fight, _they’ll_ fight, to keep hope alive. There's all sorts of awful shit awaiting them in the world, but this right here, _them_ — it's good. More than good. And strong enough to face the rest.

Finally Clarke threads her fingers through his hair and kisses him back, equally insistent, and he relaxes. Planting his feet more firmly, he thrusts up into her, catching her gasps in his mouth until she has to break apart to breathe his name. 

“That’s it,” he encourages, “louder now.”

She huffs out a laugh, stinging his shoulder in a bite seconds later. But when he sneaks a hand between their bodies to rub at her clit, her startled moan rings off the walls.

“I— I can feel you smirking,” she scolds breathlessly, and Bellamy laughs and twists his head to capture her mouth in a long kiss again, feeling her smile right back against his lips.

Soon her hands clutch the pillow beside his head, her face buried in the crook of his neck as she begins to rock faster, matching his pace and leaving them both a mess of rough gasps and echoed longing. The bed’s creaking, hitting the wall with their every movement, and Clarke’s cries are getting more high-pitched, her walls fluttering around his cock. His hips begin to jerk uncontrollably, and he can only repeat her name and crush his mouth to hers as he comes first, feeling the undeniable smirk on her lips.

“Now who’s smirking?” He asks when he’s got his breath back, and she laughs and tries to tuck her face into his shoulder, but he keeps his hand tangled in her hair, urges her forehead to drop to his as her hips turn frantic. 

“Bellamy,” she breathes.

“I want to see you,” he says, hands taking purchase on her hips again. “Come for me, Clarke.”

She clenches down hard, a sweet wail leaving her lips. Bellamy kisses her jaw, her throat, her cheek, murmuring idle words into her skin. He watches as her lips stay parted in a silent scream, her eyes squeezing shut when it becomes too much and she gives up the last ounce of control, surrendering to the moment with everything she has. 

It's wondrous.

Clarke sprawls over him, arms slung loosely atop his shoulders, her chest heaving unevenly. Bellamy presses a kiss to her damp forehead, brushing away strands of her hair and settling his arm over her shoulders, thrilled when she sighs contentedly and tightens her hold, making it clear she won’t be moving anytime soon.

Part of her wants to lie here all day, hidden away from the world with Bellamy. It’s a foolish dream, but a dream nonetheless. Maybe one day, she thinks absently.

Her waist tingles with indents of his fingers where he'd held her to him tight. It's exhilarating. She's more than glad for the marks, even hopes they'll linger, because she knows they'll remind her of him, of this moment when they were briefly indestructible as one.

Lifting her head, Clarke looks up at him, mentally tracing the features that she now knows she holds very dear. Her hand rises to follow the movement of her eyes, grazing the cleft in his chin, the sharp angle of his jaw, the rise of his cheekbones. Through it all, he watches her silently, that tender look back in his gaze. When she reaches the full swell of his lips, he kisses each of her fingertips until she smiles.

He sighs, raising an eyebrow. “What are you thinking now?”

“I’m thinking I wish we could stay in here.” The response flies out before she can take it back. Bellamy’s delighted kiss makes her glad she didn’t hold it in.

“We can,” he says after, and she shakes her head.

“We can’t.” Hesitating a second, she adds, “Not now.”

Bellamy studies her curiously, a slow smile curling his lips. “Not now.” She nods. “Yeah, okay.” He sits up with an exaggerated sigh, stretching. Her eyes drift to his back, and she moves closer in concern.

“Bellamy, wait—”

“No,” he interrupts, twisting around. “Don’t do that.”

Clarke just gapes, not sure what to do with the sudden hurt in his voice. 

He continues, “Don’t overthink this. We’re going to leave this room, save our friends, deal with everyone from the Ark, and figure this out. Together. And that’s that.”

Her lips quirk at the corners. Fuck, she might love him. 

“Bellamy,” she says again, taking his hand. “I was just going to say that I think you need stitches.”

“Oh.” He blinks, looking a little disconcerted until she leans in to kiss the corner of his mouth, brief but reassuring. Then he turns so that their lips meet, his clear relief making her hold on a bit longer.

They get dressed quickly, but Clarke snatches his shirt away before he can put it on. “Not so fast!” 

Bellamy wiggles his eyebrows. “If you say so,” he drawls, cheeky, and she blushes with a vengeance.

“Asshole.”

His laughter rings into every chamber of her heart, taking root deep in her chest and staying there. She throws his shirt at him, failing to hide her grin as she rummages around in the cabinets, coming up with a small medkit.

Bellamy’s still smiling as she perches on the bed beside him. He lets her clean up the wound to her satisfaction, not saying a word when she insists on stitching and taping another gash as well. When she’s done she points to his shirt, shoving him lightly after he smirks. He pulls it on, then takes both her hands and brushes his mouth over her bruised knuckles. Clarke smiles and cradles his cheek.

“So. We’re going to leave this room, save our friends, deal with everyone from the Ark, and figure this out. Together.” She repeats his earlier words and watches his face light up.

Bellamy nods and stands, holding out his hand. Clarke places her hand in his, and together they step outside.


End file.
